Harry Potter and the Fruits of Ennui
by Ihateseatbelts
Summary: The Dark Lord is dead, and his followers have been left to rot behind bars. Lo and behold, Harry Potter is beginning to miss the thrill of having Death breathe down his neck. He's bored, but that's not surprising. His solution, however, is nothing short of show-stopping. Post-DH, departure from Epilogue.
1. The Golden Goose Affair

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Fruits of Ennui_

**SUMMARY: **Harry reaches a crossroads in his short life, and is unsure of how to proceed. Unbeknownst to Hermione, she has the perfect solution.**  
><strong>

**Author's note: **I'm in a weird mood today - this was a little break from writing the next chapter of _Untitled Tome, _among other things. We'll see where it goes.

* * *

><p>'He's been caught on those Muggle cameras five times now- '<p>

_I can see clearly now, Snape's nose has gone..._

'- so we're sure it's Budgens, sir. We found definite traces of the Imperius Curse on his target -'

_...but he's a left an ocean of grease _

_In my way..._

'- and some torn-up lottery tickets, I believe they're called - right, Potter? We don't think he's figured out how the game works yet, sir.'

'Good work, Turpin. Right - well he's clearly not the sharpest quill in the... Potter, are you with us today?'

_Oh Hedwig,_

_Oh you came and you_

_Gave without takin',_

_But I... oh._

'Potter!'

Harry suddenly remembered where he was, only slightly embarrassed at being caught. He grinned sheepishly at Head Auror Savage, who didn't _look _amused, but neither would he if he was losing his hair at the tender wizarding age of sixty-five.

_Poor Savage... they have tinctures for that, you know._

'Sorry sir, won't happen again.'

Savage grunted. 'It had better not. So what's the next course of action for you two, then?'

Some blond guy next to Harry cleared his throat. Turnip or something, he believed.

'Well, er... Potter came up with the plan, sir... since he's my mentor, you know... '

'Yes,' Savage said, nodding slowly as if he were conversing with an infant. 'And?'

'Well... I think he'd tell it best, sir.'

Savage sat up, rolling back his immense shoulders. His bushy moustache resembled an old broom-tail in flight as he exhaled.

'Out with it then, Potter, what's wrong?' he asked curtly. 'Kneazle got your tongue?'

'Not at all, sir,' replied Harry, leaning forward. 'We intend to apprehend our man at the earliest opportunity.'

'Ah, good,' said Savage, rubbing his hands in satisfaction.

Then, silence.

'So Potter,' Savage asked after a while, 'exactly _how _do you intend to - as you say - "apprehend your man"?'

That was all he needed to hear. Harry bolted straight up from his seat, stunning the other two Aurors in the cramped office.

'And that, sir,' said Harry boldly, finger-pointing to the ceiling, 'is the thousand Galleon question. I have spent the past week labouring over blueprints, Venn diagrams, mind maps, even _street_ maps... and I have come to the conclusion that the best course of action is a good old sting operation.'

He'd done it. Wowed him into Petrification. It was beautiful... he was sure he heard Putrin clapping next to him, but then again, the brown-nosing Trainee would never give him the satisfaction.

_Gnome-tosser._

Savage sighed. It was obviously a sigh of ecstatic release.

'You're telling me, Potter,' he said warily, 'that after gathering all the intelligence that your Trainee has presented today which includes - oh, _you know _- the whereabouts of the three beds he's slept in every day this month, you'd rather catch him in the process of committing yet another crime?'

'Got it in one, sir,' replied Harry, beaming. 'Well, except for the best part of course.'

Savage's mouth fell agape; his mountain troll impression was second to none, as Harry knew from the last Christmas party.

'The... the best part.'

'Yep!' Harry affirmed, nodding giddily.

'You see, if we simply waited for him to strike again, I'd just be leaving another Muggle to the mercy of the Dark Arts. As an Auror, that would be pretty stupid of me, sir.'

'Yes. It would be.'

'But here's the kicker. I bought a corner shop a while back -'

'You _what?_' Savage spluttered.

'- at my expense, not to worry, and got the approval for a National Lotto terminal, all within a five-mile radius of Budgens' most recent haunt. Now I've told my informant to tell Budgens that his sister says that the shop owner who works there is really, _really_ dumb -'

'- no doubt -'

'- so he should give "Topper's Newsagents" a look-in. Add to that the Tracking Charm I placed on his watch and it's a done deal.'

Urptin looked back at him, dumbfounded.

'Wait,' said Savage, his brow furrowed. 'You managed to place a Tracking Charm on his watch, but you didn't think to take him down there and then? Even with all the evidence you have?'

'Of course, sir,' Harry answered, shrugging. 'I mean, Director Dawlish won't grant the Office a warrant for anyone who isn't a suspected Death Eater, as you're well aware. Now I understand that there's some bad blood around here and that he doesn't take us too seriously with the abject lack of Dark wizardry - you're welcome, by the way - jay-kay, jay-kay! But in any case, I am still duty-bound to operate within the confines of magical law.'

'By buying a corner shop?'

'That is correct, sir.'

Savage's shoulders slumped forward as he nursed his brow. 'Very well, Potter,' he said tiredly, 'report to me straight after you've brought him in.'

'What?' the Turpentine blustered.

Savage turned to the blond wizard. 'Is there a problem, Turpin?'

'You green-lit the operation, sir?' he asked, sounding almost despondent.

_Ungrateful twat, _Harry inwardly cursed, _doesn't he understand who I'm doing this for?_

'Of course I did, you silly sod,' Savage half-laughed. 'Potter brings 'em in like no one else! Clean record, minimal damage. Sure, he's a little er... unorthodox... but he gets the job done half-well. Well then, on your brooms!'

Harry mock-saluted his superior and clapped his Trainee on the back.

'Come on, Rasputin,' he said brightly. 'Let's go make some history.'

* * *

><p>Harry was in good spirits as he left the Ministry Headquarters, but he knew that it wouldn't last. His newest scheme had been given approval - like there was any doubt - but it wasn't enough. There was no challenge, no adventure... there hadn't been since the Battle of Hogwarts. His Auror training had been interesting enough, he admitted. His mentor, Williamson - good old Williamson - inspired him to study magic and mystery in ways that his school Professors never had, though that might have had something to do with actually <em>needing <em>to cast spells and brew potions to save lives daily instead of monthly... specifically for calamities such as Ron's constant Splinching, which never ceased to amuse him.

Ron and Neville left soon after the field training started, though, and most of the remaining Death Eaters had already been caught by then. Harry was now six years into his career at the Auror Office, and his crowning moment of glory was taking down an elderly wizard who had somehow managed to semi-domesticate a Dementor, whom he had allowed to freely feed on nearby Muggles. Sure, he was evil as, but he also pointed his wand backwards.

That ended well.

Harry was so bored that he elected to complete his N.E.W.T subjects part-time via correspondence courses: three Os and an E in Potions and Herbology wasn't half-bad if he didn't say so himself. When that was over, he had gotten himself a Hit Wizard's licence since they seemed to be getting all the fun, duelling potion-addled warlocks and the like. Savage put a stop to that rather quickly, though ('Too much time on your hands, eh Potter?'), and so he ended up mentoring Trainees, just like Williamson. He really felt for the old bastard, now.

His friends were still the same, which he was grateful for. Ron still followed the Cannons, Hermione was still trying to change the world, and they were both ripping each other apart when they weren't ripping each other's robes apart. Luna was still off in La-la-land - _literally, _too - Neville still talked to pots, and Seamus did whatever Seamus did, Dean still laughing at him in the background.

And Ginny? _Oho..._ as Slughorn would say,_ Ginny..._

Harry shook his head in an attempt to bring himself back to Earth, the wolfish grin on his face refusing to leave. He was late for lunch with Hermione, who also had a half-day, and it was completely AstroTurf's fault.

_Damn Trainees, always asking important questions like it isn't called 'on-the-job' for a reason!_

He took a brisk walk to Charing Cross (like hell was he getting Floo Powder on his hundred-Galleon Parkinsons) giving Tom a quick wave as he ambled through the Leaky Cauldron and past the brick wall.

The Golden Goose was a recent addition to Diagon Alley's roster of businesses. The location was in dire need of another gastropub - Harry had no idea how Tom coped - and the ever-accommodating Anthony Goldstein was all too willing to oblige. In fact, as Harry approached the premises, he could see the mousy little wizard chatting up a frustrated Hermione in the front window.

'Harry!' Goldstein bellowed as Harry had barely come through the door. 'Sharp as ever, I see! Is that Acromantula silk?' he asked, pointing at Harry's form-fitting, Muggle-friendly grey cloak.

'No,' drawled Harry, 'Acromantula. Just Acromantula.'

'Well, only the best for the Wizard-Who-Won, am I right?'

Harry nodded weakly, taking a seat in front of a simmering Hermione.

'Here's the specials for today,' said Goldstein, Summoning a menu for the pair with a flick of his wand. 'Take your time, guys. Holler if you need anything!'

As Goldstein skipped towards the back of the pub, Harry turned his attention to his best friend in the whole wide Wizarding World.

'Have I ever told you how much your eyes look like cinnamon-y slash honey-coloured orbs of chocolatey magical wonder?' he said sweetly, batting his eyelids.

Hermione flipped him off.

'I love Ron,' Harry gushed. 'If only we had a camera right now. This is such a Kodak moment!'

'How could you leave me here with _him?_' whispered Hermione furiously, her eyes strained.

'Who, Goldstein?' Harry asked, chuckling. 'He's harmless.'

'No, he's _not,_' she shot back. 'He keeps calling me 'Mione. It's not a thing, Harry. Why is he trying to make it a thing?'

Harry rolled his eyes at her. 'Give him a break, Hermione, he's nice. Treats us like family and everything.'

'Who doesn't?' she queried, eyes heavy-lidded. He had to hand it to her there; everyone and their house-elf tried to sidle up to the Golden Trio (not that they called themselves that... of course not) and with Goldstein being known as Goldstein, well...

'You need to stop humouring him,' she said, crossing her arms, 'and besides, Ron is starting to get ideas.'

'Ron gets ideas about every bloke,' Harry said through a snigger. 'He even thought your dad was trying to get a piece of arse- '

'_His _arse, Harry,' Hermione giggled, 'not _mine._'

'Yeah,' he said huskily, leaning back as he waggled his eyebrows at her. 'Still, I'd be tempted- '

'_Harry!_' she yelped, smacking his arm.

'It's only a joke, 'Mione.'

'Don't,' she said warningly, index finger extended, 'and what about Ginny? Why aren't you returning her Floos?'

Harry shrugged. 'We're playing hide-and-seek.'

'You're imposs- wait,' she said lowly, raising an eyebrow. 'Is that why she could see you hiding under your sofa last night?'

Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. 'I left the fireplace on _again? _Merlin...'

'You're bonkers, Harry Potter,' Hermione sighed, shaking her head. 'Why can't you just stay out of trouble?'

Harry looked at her for a long moment. Hermione seemed to realise that she had hit a nerve, her brow wrinkled in concern.

'What else is there to do, Hermione,' he said quietly, his voice quavering, 'when you've died and come back to beat the Final Boss?'

Hermione appeared to be on the verge of tears for a fleeting moment. Then she cackled like the barmy witch that she was.

'You play the _sequel, _silly,' she heaved in-between laughs. 'Oh Harry, you're such a drama-king.'

'You know it,' he answered with a grin, 'but forget that! Everyone knows the sequel pales in comparison.'

'When did you become so thirsty for adventure?'

'I suppose I always have been,' he said wistfully, 'but now it's a blank canvas. Where do I even go from here?'

Hermione looked at him with a knowing smile. 'You want to leave the Auror Office.'

'They don't need me there, Hermione,' he huffed, 'and my Trainee is so _boring. _I try to spice our assignment up a little, and he just turns his nose up at it. Fact is, he could do it all on his own, wand-hand tied behind his back. There's no action over there any more! It's either two-bit thieves who cast the Killing Curse and missed that one time, or it's a toilet seat with rancid Bubotuber pus applied to it, and believe me, the latter is far more common. They don't need me - not really - and I sure as hell haven't needed them for a long while, now.'

'So you want a scrap?' Hermione said with an amused smile. 'Why don't you go back to the Hit Wizards? Savage never _could _stop you from transferring, you know.'

'It's nothing I haven't seen before though, is it?' he argued. 'The only place in the Ministry that could show me anything new is, incidentally, the only place I'm unofficially barred from ever entering.'

Hermione hummed in acknowledgement as she looked towards the ceiling. Harry wouldn't have been surprised if she had wanted to join the Unspeakables at some point, but they both had a Puffskein's chance in the Forbidden Forest of getting an invitation after their fifth year.

'My point still stands,' Hermione said defiantly. 'Play the sequel. You said it yourself: you've died and come back to defeat the most powerful Dark wizard of the century. You're a great wizard, Harry.'

Harry blushed. 'Well when you put it that way...'

Hermione playfully smacked his arm again. 'I'm being serious,' she said with a short laugh. 'You're always saying that you want to see more of the world. Why don't you go on a Grand Tour, then? Travel the world, let them know just what Harry Potter has to offer.'

She was onto something, there. Harry did complain about how trapped he felt in Britain; he was jealous of how Ginny could be playing in the Sahara one weekend and Australia on the next.

'You're right, Hermione,' he said with resolve. 'I'm going to hand in my notice first thing Monday!'

Hermione gawked at him. 'Don't you think that's a bit... rash?'

'Nah,' he scoffed with a hand-wave, 'it's just what I need. Hell, I'll take Kreacher with me! Merlin knows he could do with a tan.'

'House-elves don't tan, Harry,' she said, running a hand through her bushy hair. 'They peel. Badly_._'

'How would you know?' asked Harry, stopping her before she could explain. 'Actually, let's leave that one.'

'Good idea.'

* * *

><p>Harry was right when he thought that his good spirits wouldn't last: handing in his notice that Monday only served to incense his superior. Literally. Savage promptly set fire to Harry's cubicle, and the blaze had gotten out of hand very quickly. No one had anticipated it, after all. They managed to set things right without calling Maintenance, and the Office swore just short of an Unbreakable Vow never to speak of it again. Harry returned from a hastily taken lunch break to find a guilty-looking team. Proudfoot had chewed through a three sets of Sugar Quills, even, but the treats had done little to lift her own spirits.<p>

When they eventually ushered Harry towards the Head Auror's office, Savage could be found under a table, clutching a bottle of Ogden's Old for dear life as he brewed a liberal mixture of tears, snot and Firewhisky into his bushy moustache.

'H-how can you l-leave us, 'Arry?' he blubbered as Harry softly rocked his back. 'I'm not g-g-gonna c-cope withou... _ah, damn it to Hades_...'

Harry supposed that Savage had developed a soft spot for him, but Harry was a bird that needed setting free.

_Oh Hedwig..._

He collapsed on the sofa in Grimmauld Place's drawing-room with spectacular grace - Ron would have given him a ten-out-of-ten. Which reminded him; the ginger sod was supposed to be bringing the booze tonight.

'Kreacher,' he moaned from his place on the sofa. 'I require assistance!'

The half-rotten elf appeared immediately before him with a soft _pop_, their noses almost touching.

'Master is in need of Kreacher?' the house-elf croaked.

_Yes, eat a Peppermint Toad or seven.  
><em>

'Have there been any Floos for me?'

'Yes, Master,' he replied, bowing slightly. 'Mistress Andromeda is expecting you for Sunday dinner, and Mr Weasley from the shop is asking why Master cannot take his own girlfriend to dinner.'

Harry laughed, though it still hurt to laugh. _Damn Savage and his mountain troll hugs._

'Good, good,' said Harry ominously, nefariously rubbing his hands together as best he could. 'Now Ron's staying over, so if you could rustle up some hamburgers for us I would be most grateful. Make it a troll platter - you know him.'

Kreacher nodded sagely. 'Is Master liking chips with that?'

'Absolutely.'

'With cheese or without?' asked Kreacher.

'On the burgers? Hells yes. On the chips, however... leave some grated cheddar on the side. You know our salads, don't you? Sorry if it's too much.'

'Not at all, Master,' Kreacher said reassuringly, bowing lower this time. 'Master works hard to keep his House in good standing, Master does.'

'Thanks Kreacher,' Harry yawned, 'you're the best.'

Kreacher gave him a grimace (or a smile, he couldn't really tell) and _popped _off to wherever it was that he found the ingredients.

_Because I sure as hell haven't gone shopping since ever._

Alone once more, Harry crawled over to the fireplace, chucking a sprinkle of Floo Powder in from the mantle.

'Weasleys Wizard Wheezes,' he said before dunking his head into the viridian flames. The vision of the office that greeted him was as vibrant as ever: Ron was busy testing another of his one-eared brother's oddball experiments as usual.

'Oi, Weasley!' he rasped. 'Where's my Butterbeer?'

And as usual, Ron jumped in his seat. The object in front of him - an egg, it appeared - duplicated and sprouted spots.

'Merlin,' Ron breathed, pressing a hand to his chest, scowling at his fireplace. 'You and your fat head, Potter.'

'Still haven't answered my question,' Harry pressed on. 'Now are we getting rat-arsed or nah?'

Twenty minutes later, Harry and Ron were sprawled out on the drawing-room sofa, surrounded by a large stack of burgers and chips, crates of Butterbeer and a perpetually chilled bottle of Madam Rosmerta's own mead.

'Fo anywo,' Ron gobbled in-between mouthfuls of dead cow, 'wots 'e 'cashum?'

Luckily for Harry, he had years of experience in deciphering the obscure English dialect of Roonil Wazlib.

'I quit,' he said simply, grinning ear-to-ear.

Ron proceeded to empty his mouth all over his friend's face and cloak (and they weren't made of Acromantula, silly, but were still very nice) which Harry was _not _grateful for. One Scouring Charm later, though, he was willing to forgive and forget.

'Mate...' groaned Ron, his face ashen. 'Ginny's gonna kill you. Mum's gonna kill you twice. Dad'll probably make your ghost want to die from the guilt of his disappointment. And Hermione?'

'She'll magic me into non-existence, yes,' Harry finished for him.

Ron did a double-take, his expression soon taking the form of boyish glee. '_No_... She knows?'

Harry's grin returned. 'It was her idea!'

Ron fell back into the sofa, contemplating life and wizardry for a long while.

'Fuck it,' he said eventually. 'Congrats, mate. Really.'

'Thanks!' Harry replied as they absently clinked Butterbeers. 'Now let's watch some telly, eh?'

If there was one good thing about being best friends with Ron as well as Ginny's boyfriend, it was knowing Arthur Weasley. The man had somehow _enchanted_ Harry's television to pick up channels from all over the world, not to mention police signals, the neighbour's telephone calls (Stanley _was_ a dirty boy) and what Harry highly suspected to be a private line between DPRK intelligence and its sleeper agents. It was nothing short of amazing that, considering the fact that Grimmauld Place was a very magical dwelling and that the box had over nine-thousand spells placed inside it, the television actually _worked._

_Good old Weasley... good old Williamson... a wizard with a 'W' is a good old wizard indeed._

They switched the box on and, given the endless supply of content they had to choose from, went for the best choice first.

'ITV,' the wizards said in unison, turning to channel 0.000000000003.

'Damn it,' Ron groused as they watched the credits of a show roll. 'Just remembered... that was the last repeat of the _X Factor_ final!'

Harry sniggered at Ron's newfound taste for Muggle programming.

'Come on, mate,' he said before taking a swig of Butterbeer. 'You know it's all about the audition. Who gives a shit about people who can _actually _sing?'

'I do,' Ron said quietly, looking a little hurt.

_'Are you feeling empty from the void that was once the X Factor in your otherwise miserable Saturday night?' _the disembodied man from the television boomed.

'Yes,' moaned Ron with a hint of lust, 'oh Merlin, yes!'

'Down Fluffy,' Harry remarked with a smirk as he nicked a chip, 'it's only a commercial...'

_'Do you have a talent that you can't help but share with the world?'_

Now that one caught Harry's attention.

_'Then look no further: courtesy of the_ X Factor's _Lymon Powell, in the spirit of the variety shows of old, we present to you... _BRITAIN'S GOT TALENT!'

'By Jove, she has...' mused Harry aloud, his gaze transfixed.

'What?' Ron said, confused.

_'Auditions will take place in... GLASGOW! EDINBURGH! BELFAST! NEWCASTLE! _LIVERPOOL!_ MANCHESTER! YORK! BIRMINGHAM! Aaaaaaaaand... LONDON! Details to apply are as follows... '  
><em>

Harry quickly Conjured a quill and parchment, copying down the details of the London audition before it flashed off the screen.

Ron sat in silence, the Knut nowhere close to dropping as he alternated glances between the television and Harry.

'I don't get it,' he said dumbly as the announcement was replaced by the _News at Ten, _which was promptly followed by a Tesco advert.

Harry sat his wad of parchment down as he regarded his poor, ginger companion.

'Won-Won?'

'Scarhead?'

Harry gave him a conspiratorial wink and a clap on the shoulder.

'All will become clear in time, my rufescent friend,' he said with a smile that shined brighter than a thousand suns.

'I love Hermione,' Ron said, scoffing. 'If only we had a... what is it? Nissan Micra loan?'

'Microphone, Ron,' Harry sighed, 'you fell off, mate.'


	2. The Docklands Alightment

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Fruits of Ennui_

**SUMMARY: **Ginny suspects something, but does nothing. Vernon does not have remote control privileges.

**Author's note: **And here's another. Nothing serious, but thanks for reading! Shout out to _Son of Whitebeard, _nice to know the location know-how was appreciated! Missing home quite a bit right now, so that might have spilled onto the page.

* * *

><p>Exactly one month had passed since Harry handed his notice in to Savage, and he was already having second thoughts. Not about leaving the Auror Office, of course: he was glad to be shot of his Trainee, Armpit. But the <em>Britain's Got Talent <em>London auditions began next week, and he couldn't bring himself to sign his application.

But he had to. He owed it himself - nay, the world - to spice things up around here, rather than wait for another nigh-omnipotent Dark wizard to appear.

_Like that was bloody likely..._

That being said, Harry's plan to shock and awe the world via national television was, quite possibly, the most dangerous thing he'd ever contemplated doing. Nothing Dark of course; Harry Potter was not a Dark wizard, far from it in fact. He was known to dabble in a bit of Fiendfyre now and again, but the demolition of Malfoy Manor was a necessary evil (plus he used Draco's old wand to make it look like insurance fraud - he never reported it stolen). No, Harry was just a smigden more mischievous than your garden-variety wizard, and his latest scheme would be the jewel in his crown... his forbidden fruit.

Harry Potter was going rogue.

Casting aside his doubts and inhibitions, Harry hurriedly scrawled his initials at the bottom of the form, slapping a First-Class stamp on the envelope once he sealed it.

'Kreacher!' he hollered to the ether.

'Master called?' the ancient house-elf replied as he _popped _into existence.

'I need you to mail this for me, post haste!'

Kreacher's forehead wrinkled twice as much as usual. 'Is Master sure that this is wise?'

'Of course he is,' Harry muttered as he stuffed the envelope into Kreacher's bony fingers. 'Take my Cloak, you'll be hunky-dory.'

'Kreacher is not sure, Master- '

'But the postbox is a hundred _yards _away_,' _Harry whined.

The house-elf inclined his disproportionately gargantuan head as he strained to spin on his heels.

'Very well, Kreacher shall do Master's bidding.'

Harry's lip quirked in amusement. 'When did you stop immediately indulging my demands, anyway?'

Kreacher shrugged. 'Master keeps leaving his socks on the bedroom doorknob when Mistress Ginevra visits. Kreacher was at a loss of what to do, so he simply does things in moderation.'

* * *

><p>'He did <em>not <em>say that,' said Ginny, light-brown eyes shining with mirth despite her general look of shock.

Harry gave her a lazy smile as he ever so gently grasped her chin. 'Would I lie to you?'

'Yes.'

'Fair enough,' he mumbled, cocking his head to the side. 'But I swear to you that he's onto us. That is one _filthy _elf, Gin.'

Ginny snorted, spraying two high-pressured jets of pumpkin juice out of her nose. Her face went as red as a tomato soon after, and she swiftly hurled the half-full goblet into the Burrow's pond, where it sank with a satisfying _clunk_.

'Aww,' cooed Harry. '_Tergeo. _You know I would've used my tongue, but I heard your Gwenog's been spreading those Fire-crabs of late- '

'You_ knob!_' said Ginny chortling, punching his arm dead. She wiped away a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye before smiling coyly in the way only she could.

'Love you.'

And just like that, the monster in his chest roared triumphantly, as if it were the Hogwarts Quidditch final of ninety-seven all over again.

_What would I ever do without you, Gin?_

'Likewise,' he said breathlessly as she nestled into his side. 'If only I was as sure about... well, everything else.'

They stayed in perfectly-not-awkward silence for a short while, enjoying the peaceful sunset above the shimmering pond as they sat atop the bough of the Burrow's largest tree.

'Harry,' Ginny finally whispered, eyes still fixated on the pond. 'Are you really leaving the Ministry? Just like that? You know how much Kingsley wants you there.'

He drew a deep breath as he ran a hand through his hair. Ginny was asking a question she already knew the answer to, which was one of her few truly frustrating habits.

'It's not like I hate it,' he said, looking down as she idly picked at his calloused fingers. 'I just... need to do something with my life, you know? Something that gets my heart racing again.'

'Why not Quidditch?' she supplied.

'Flying's awesome,' he agreed, rubbing his chin, 'but it's not new, Gin. Don't get me wrong, you play like no one's business! But it just turned into an escape for me, when I think about it. Now it just makes me think of... '

Errol, the Weasley family owl who was half-dead but not completely dead as ever, could be seen dragging himself through the air towards the kitchen window right at that moment.

'Hedwi- ah,' Ginny murmured in realisation, 'sorry.'

'Not your fault.'

Another silence crept over them, though this one was decidedly more awkward.

'You're not gonna go Dumbledore crazy on me,' she said softly after a few moments, 'are you?'

Harry chuckled.

'Come on, Ginny,' he said jovially, gently rocking her by the shoulder, 'what are you like, eh?'

Ginny didn't respond.

'Seriously Gin... would I lie to _you?_'

* * *

><p>November the fourteenth had finally arrived. It was the third day of the <em>Britain's Got Talent <em>London auditions, and the first day of the rest of Harry's life. He'd received his acceptance letter just forty-eight hours after sending it, and by the time he was ready to walk out the door, he was bouncing off the walls: but he had one last thing to take care of.

'Kreacher!'

_Pop. _'Master calls Kreacher?'

'This is the big one, buddy,' said Harry tersely as he restlessly paced up and down the entrance corridor of the house. 'After all these years, I'm finally calling it. _Code Orange._'

Kreacher's eyelids were suddenly drawn back by forces hitherto unknown.

'Code _Orange_, Master?' he gasped, wringing his hands. 'Pumpkin juice orange or Chudley Cannons orange?'

Harry stopped in his tracks, turning to give the house-elf a look of disdain.

'I don't fuck about, Kreacher,' he said, shaking his head. 'Pumpkin juice, obviously. Now you know what that means?'

'Write to Mistress Ginevra, and no one else.'

Harry ruffled the wizened elf's head (and promptly wiped the mildew on the nearby coat rack).

'That's it, and get my stuff ready. Only the essentials. Be ready once I Apparate home - we have to be out of here in five minutes, tops.'

Kreacher bowed. 'We shall cross wings with the fastest of dragons, Master.'

Harry bid his elf a quick farewell before Apparating to an alley near the Docklands, opting to take a leisurely walk to the ExCeL Centre where auditions were taking place. It would be his first live television appearance (the first live talent auditions in the UK, according to Ron), and is wouldn't do for him to look all flustered on camera.

That was when he saw it: the queue was immense. No wonder his application came back so quickly; they were obviously accepting any Tom, Dick and... never mind.

It looked like Harry was going to have to play dirty.

' 'Scuse me, 'scuse me!' he shouted to a burly steward in a high-visibilty jacket at the bottom end of the steps.

The steward twisted his nearly nonexistent neck around as he followed the path of Harry's voice.

'Yeah? Whadja want?' he grunted as he reluctantly lumbered over.

Harry kept close eye contact with the cantankerous man as he discreetly waved his wand under his coat sleeve.

_Confundo, _he thought intently.

'Got a VIP pass,' Harry said casually as he flashed a blank piece of paper. 'Can I go up now?'

The steward raised an eyebrow, scratching his head.

'Er... yeah, sure,' he said uncertainly, 'up here, then. Bernie!' he called to another equally dim-looking security guard. 'This one's wiv me. Take over, wudja?'

As they made their way past the barriers, Harry took his time to admire the shiny building.

_It's crazy, _he thought, _Muggles love shiny things even more than we do..._

Once they reached the seating area, which was packed with almost as many people as the outside queue, the steward sat him down after pressing a huge sticker to his abdomen.

'Name?' he growled.

'Harry Potter.'

The steward eyed him suspiciously for a moment. He apparently thought nothing else of it, though, as he proceeded to take out a clipboard, quickly scribbling something before turning away.

'Someone'll take you up in a bit,' he muttered. 'Sit tight 'ere, an' don't bovver the talent.'

'But isn't _everyone _the talent, here?' Harry said mostly to himself, taking in the view of the vast ocean of hopefuls around him.

Barely five minutes had passed when a short, green-haired bespectacled lady with an earpiece and clipboard walked up to him.

'Harry Potter?' she asked.

'That's I,' Harry said warmly, pumping her hand twice.

She smiled genially. 'If you'd like to follow me - we'll get you prepped in no time.'

* * *

><p>Vernon Dursley was exhausted. Not once in his twenty-eight year career at Grunnings did he forsee himself working on a Saturday: especially in his fifties. Nevertheless, that was how he had spent the better part of his weekend, and now he was savouring the meagre reward of having the evening off, a warm brew in hand as he generously filled the farthest couch of the living-room, with ample flesh spilling over each arm. All things being considered, home was home, and Vernon wouldn't spend his days any other way now that his wife and he had an empty nest, occasional trips to Benidorm aside.<p>

Unfortunately, while Vernon did have his couch, and his tea, and his biscuits, his jurisdiction ran just short of the television itself. Saturday nights were Petunia's domain, and though he would much rather watch the news upstairs, it would only delay her constant yapping about how Anc and Ted loved to tease Lymon Powell on the telly.

'Oh, I do love a good sob story, though,' she prattled on as _Britain's Got Talent _returned from its commercial break. 'Even if they are half fake most of the time. Sometimes they don't even try! Like that one who was doing it for his Grandma because she "had a bad fall"... you remember that one, Vernon? Vernon?'

'Yes, Pet,' he said testily, 'it was pathetic, I remember.'

'_Truly _pathetic,' she said with a derisive sniff. 'Don't know how the voters fall for it each year. I mean, look at that one. Lanky, built like a rake, scruffy hair... he'll probably be saying he grew up in a cellar next week...'

They both shared a look as Petunia fell silent.

Surely not.

_'My name's Harry,'_ said a voice-over on the television. _'I'm twenty-four and I'm from Surrey- I mean, London!'_

Petunia's mouth twisted as if she had eaten a hamster pellet by mistake.

'Oh, Number Two's going to love this, she will,' she sneered.

_'I'm a little... odd, you could say- ' _

Vernon scoffed.

_'- always have been, but that's not news. I've showcased my talent semi-publicly for years, now, but I think I'm ready for the world to finally see what it's missing out on... '_

'Well isn't that just bully,' said Vernon dryly, crossing his colossal arms. 'What's he gonna do then? Pull a Rampant Rabbit out his- '

'Vern, this is serious,' Petunia replied. 'He could get in a lot of trouble for that.'

'Not after all those damn parades,' Vernon muttered, 'and why would _we _care, anyway?'

'We're his next of kin,' she said sourly. 'I will _not _be associated with a criminal, Vernon.'

_'I left my job last week to come here, so I'm not going down without a fight. Lymon Powell, I _hope _you're ready.'_


	3. The ExCeL Revelation

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

**TITLE: **_Harry Potter and the Fruits of Ennui_

**SUMMARY:** Harry bares all. Miers Porgan is rendered speechless.

**Author's note: **Why am I doing still this, lol? Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p><em>Bloody hell that light's bright,<em> Harry thought to himself, shielding his eyes as he stumbled in from backstage.

The amphitheatre was deathly silent, save for a few unnecessarily strained coughs. If Harry was fourteen all over again, he might have been intimidated by the sea of scrutinising eyes tracking his every step, but the last thing that tried to glare him to death got a silver blade to the head. Even fourteen-year-old Harry had faced rougher crowds than this: hell, he outflew a dragon.

Then again, fourteen-year-old Harry couldn't swim without seaweed, so that probably wasn't a very good example.

'Name?' asked a bored, trying-too-hard-to-be-imperious voice from the judges' panel. He looked downwards; the smug-faced Lymon Powell sat on the right-hand side, arms crossed and threatening to burst out of his impossibly tight v-neck shirt.

He wasn't particularly muscular, of course. The shirt was just _that _impossibly tight.

'Harry Potter, pleased to meet you,' replied Harry, his tone trembling just so as he flashed the audience a sheepish smile.

_That's it, Harry, don't lay it on too thick..._

'Aw,' a kinder, but far more patronising voice, Samantha Golden, he believed, came from the far left. 'It's nice to meet you too, Harry. Are you nervous?'

'Er - just a little,' he said, raking a hand through his hair. His Espionage lessons from his Trainee days paid off here; Ron had never thought to show him how to blush on cue before. Samantha, with her flawless skin, shiny tweed hair and perfect smile, was quite pretty, which helped somewhat.

'Not to worry, it'll be over soon enough,' Lymon muttered into his microphone. The audience roared in a strange mixture of laughs and boos. Samantha hurled an empty plastic cup at her scantily clad colleague, which provoked the crowd even further.

'Have you performed on stage before?' called another voice, far more pompous than the other two.

There he was: Harry's target, Miers Porgan. He had nothing against the man personally, but after reading up on the judges, he found that Porgan wasn't exactly the most likeable person in the Muggle world for various reasons, the most visceral being that he was a pompous twit. He certainly looked like one, given the overdone brown curls, an obnoxiously stiff upper-lip and his whole suit-without-a-tie get-up.

What a monster.

Harry decided to humour him, for now. 'Of sorts, yes,' he said quietly, nodding as he looked down at his shoes.

'And what is it that you do, Harry?' asked Samantha.

'Well, to tell you the truth,' he replied nervously (for real this time), 'I'm a... I'm a wizard.'

* * *

><p>'He did <em>not,<em>' Petunia said aghast, hand on heart as she hyperventilated for England.

_Lord knows, with her nostrils..._

'Think he just did,' Vernon corrected her with an upturned smile.

He didn't like the boy, heaven forbid, but Vernon loved a good freak show - when separated by a television screen, of course. If he was lucky, the audience might just chase the idiot with torches and pitchforks.

* * *

><p><em>BERRRP. <em>

Lymon Powell wore a languid smirk of self-righteous satisfaction as his palm enveloped the large red button in front of him.

'Oooooooh,' crowed the audience as Samantha shot the man an incredulous look. Was Harry missing something here?

'You see, Harry,' he slurred, the smugness dripping from his every syllable, 'you've already broken the first Law of a magic show: showing the audience, rather than telling them. Now I'd say that almost three million per cent of the auditions we've run today were made up of boring hocus-pocus tricks, so if you haven't got anything new to add, I'd suggest that you quit while you're ahead - your stage presence already speaks volumes.'

The amphitheatre fell silent again; Harry actually _felt _the barbs of that last quip. Before he could fix his puppy-dog eyes, however, Lymon quashed his train of thought with another remark:

'Off you go. We've had enough of your kind.'

_Oh no this witch didn't._

'My kind? How dare you,' snarled Harry, his mild-mannered veneer cast aside, 'I was trained in the forests of Albania for ten weeks, mate. You haven't seen "my kind".'

The audience erupted with a wave of jeers. Who the hell did they think he was?

'Don't mind him, Harry,' Samantha said through a set of surprisingly well-stifled giggles, 'please carry on!'

Harry wasn't fooled, but he gave her a bow of appreciation all the same.

'My express gratitude, Madam Golden,' he purred before clearing his throat.

'Now as I was saying before I was rudely interrupted,' he said, looking pointedly at Lymon, 'I am indeed a wizard. No, _not _a magician, but a real fairy-tale, wand-waving wizard.'

The audience jeered at him again.

'Yes, I know,' he continued in a sing-song voice, 'so young, so young... where's my beard, right? But I can prove it to you, no problem. Now I don't keep up-to-date with the mortal world as much as I should, but I hear that most of you think our friend Miers here is a bit of a... well, _knob_.'

Miers made a beeline for his own red button, though he was stopped at the last millisecond by the hand of none other than Lymon Powell himself.

'Give him a second,' he said smarmily, 'I want to see where he's going with this. Keep it pre-watershed though, Harry.'

And just like that, the audience was on Harry's side.

'Thank you, Lymon,' Harry said, winking at the judge, 'so - what if I told you all that I could actually turn Miers' head into a doorknob?'

'Bollocks,' Miers scoffed.

'Ah ah ah, pre-watershed Mr Porgan,' Harry chided him as he waggled a finger, 'do you have a preference? Brass? Iron? Mahogany?'

'How about tin?' suggested Lymon, sounding completely earnest. The audience roared with laughter.

'I think tin's an excellent choice,' Samantha agreed, gracing Harry with her silver medal-winning smile.

'Tin it is!' Harry said boldly, drawing his wand for the first time.

'All it'll take is eleven inches of holly, a single phoenix feather, and a solid grounding in good-old classical wizardry. Anc and Ted, cue the music.'

* * *

><p>'Now what you have to remember, Turpin, is that <em>Specialis revelio<em> is not always an ideal litmus test, because why?'

'The worst kinds of Dark magic don't look like magic at all,' Turpin replied tonelessly, eyes glazed over as his new (read: extremely aged) supervisor feebly waved his wand over a suspected Dark artifact that he had procured from the Evidence Room for training purposes.

The past two weeks had been painfully monotonous for Nigel Turpin, who was halfway through the third and final year of his Auror Traineeship. His success had been hard-won so far; not for want of talent, as he breezed through every test and assignment he was given, but because of his previous mentor. The famous and recently ex-Auror was a formidable wizard in his own right, but too many curses to the head had probably taken their toll eventually, because a man that mad belonged in Azkaban with everyone he had sent there. Nigel might have spoken too quickly, though, because at least this other supervisor (who hadn't bothered to learn his name, so forget mentioning his) was actually fun, underneath the being insane thing.

Auror Hedgpole, in comparison, was absolutely mind-numbing.

'As you can see,' the ancient wizard said slowly, 'ninety-two minutes of applying identification spells to the target have produced what, my boy?'

'Absolutely nothing, sir?'

'Correct,' he coughed, 'and how do we rectify this?'

'We assume that there's nothing wrong with it.'

Hedgpole raised a liver-spotted eyebrow. 'You'd say so?'

'Yes sir,' Turpin answered, slightly irritated, 'because you got it from the Evidence Room. It's already been processed, ergo, no Dark traces.'

The senior Auror huffed. 'That's the problem with you wizzer-snappers,' he said as he hobbled out of the room for reasons unknown, 'think you've seen it all, don't you? Well there's a reason they call it Dark, boy - you don't see it 'til _after_ it kills you!'

And with that, he was gone.

' 'Spose I've got a free day now?' Nigel joked aloud as he gathered his cloak.

He could always go and see Romilda. _Merlin knows she isn't working at eight in the evening..._

Just as Nigel turned to the door, a stocky dark-haired wizard burst through the frame.

'Bletchley?' said Nigel, puzzled, 'Where's the fire?'

Bletchley looked up at him. He was sweating profusely, his face ashen.

'It's Potter,' he rasped in-between heaving breaths, 'he's lost it.'

Nigel snorted. 'Hardly news.'

Bletchley shook his head quickly. 'Nah, he's really done it this time.'

Nigel frowned. Potter was mad, yes, but he was harmless.

'What's he done, Miles?' he asked with a small amount of trepidation.

'He's really done it,' Bletchley repeated, his tone forlorn, 'he's broken the Statute. For good.'

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **This one's painfully short in comparison, but hey! Can't get sidetracked, can we? I will be sticking with this too of course, but _Untitled Tome _is my number one priority for fanfic writing at the moment.


End file.
